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Running From The Sunrise
Running From The Sunrise
Running From The Sunrise
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Running From The Sunrise

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  • Sun-drenched, Southern California/Southern Florida-set thriller not unlike Carl Hiaasen or Don Winslow novels
  • LanguageEnglish
    Release dateAug 22, 2017
    ISBN9781945572951
    Running From The Sunrise

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      Book preview

      Running From The Sunrise - Jon Rankin

      RftS_PR_Cover_RGB.jpg

      This is a Genuine Rare Bird Book

      A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

      453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

      Los Angeles, CA 90013

      rarebirdbooks.com

      Copyright © 2017 by Jon Rankin

      All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic.

      For more information, address:

      A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

      453 South Spring Street, Suite 302,

      Los Angeles, CA 90013.

      Set in Dante

      epun isbn: 9781945572951

      Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

      Names: Rankin, Jon, author.

      Title: Running from the sunrise / Jon Rankin.

      Description: First Trade Paperback Original Edition | A Rare Bird Book | New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2017.

      Identifiers: ISBN 9781945572500

      Subjects: LCSH Serial murderers—Fiction. | Detectives—Fiction. | Florida—Fiction. | California, Southern—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Thrillers / Crime

      Classification: LCC PS3618.A6465 R86 2017 | DDC 813.6—dc23

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter One

      Three years old and on a tricycle is no place that a human life should end. The sheer pointlessness of a senseless act of violence itself is always overshadowed when the recipient of it has had insufficient life experience to even appreciate the gravity of the deed. Logic dictates that a reaction to the loss of a life upon which no other lives depend would pale in comparison to the rejoinder exhibited when one that is a provider perishes. Emotion pulls in the opposite direction. Historical results follow sentiment.

      Lloyd cared not for the tears and fears that followed his grizzly crime. Longer ago than he could remember, the tiny silicon chip buried deep inside his head had been switched to overload. There was no biological basis for the malfunction. There were no environmental effects to which one could point and somehow reveal the reason for the episodes of rage. Genetically and physiologically, Lloyd could get through any gauntlet of tests one could devise in order to weed out the weirdos. Peer inside of him and nothing of the problem would be disclosed in the slightest.

      The tinder and spark were deeply hidden. Beneath the perception of the combined probative ability of science and medicine lay a short fuse on a large bomb. Once the chain reaction started, it was a quick slide to meltdown. The swift flash left almost as soon as it arrived. Lloyd barely recalled this or any other incident other than as a vague haze, much like a daydream from hell.

      This time it started with a newspaper advertisement. Sears and Roebuck were trying to interest the public in some children’s toys. Lloyd ignored the test and scanned the picture while peeling strips of mozzarella string cheese from a tubular chunk. Each section inchwormed into his mouth by contractions of his lips toward his teeth, which severed small bites of the dry dairy product to be chewed.

      The ad offered a tricycle for $29.95. The enticement and attraction was the picture of a towheaded toddler with an ear-to-ear grin sans a couple of teeth. Undoubtedly older than he looked, the tyke of a model perched atop the trike beckoned of suburban euphoria. The image from the newspaper page kindled a chain reaction amidst countless irrelevant synapses. Lloyd neatly refolded the paper, calmly walked aloft to the attic, and retrieved the weapon that would, with a single stroke, bend countless lives in unanticipated and askew angles.

      The shotgun sat loaded and cocked for months, sometimes years, without contact. It was always there. Although it was not a conscious presence in the psyche, the fuse within always knew were to find it. The cyclical detonation source never had to search for a means. The slender piece of steel was never visualized in the course of things, but was also never far from reach when the peculiar need from time to time arose.

      Lloyd never checked the chamber or the mechanism. To do so would acknowledge the premeditated work contrary to the spontaneity of it all. He methodically bore the weapon down the attic stairs the way a priest carries the chalice to the altar. The door from the kitchen led to the garage. The piece of ordnance was held as a monarch holds a scepter, barrel to the sky, as he opened the door. Two cement steps down to the garage floor, Lloyd continued to clutch the breech of the shotgun and hold it vertically as if it were an icon or an idol or a graven image of some page of faith.

      He opened the car door slowly and surely. The rod was lain down across the passenger side of the bench seat. It pointed to the door in an open and notorious manner. The garage door motored open and the car engine was started. There it stayed, in plain daylight, ready for a task, ready to complete the neurological explosion that had to occur. The car rolled slowly backward through the door and down the short path to the cul-de-sac. Still the weapon, the killing device, remained in naked view.

      He was unable to secrete or camouflage the shotgun in any manner. Again, the smallest of efforts in this respect would exhibit a calculated manner. It had to be impromptu in all respects. To act otherwise would force Lloyd to accept complete accountability for his actions. The virus, catalyst if you will, could not be completely culpable if reason entered into the picture. It had to be a rash act with all incumbent risk, as Lloyd was to walk back into his life when it was over.

      Quite without design, entirely without pattern, Lloyd oozed his generic sedan through the suburban environment. He rolled passed the adolescents playing touch football in the street. He ignored a playground full of young lives and futures. Almost blindly and totally absent an itinerary, the car in the plain brown wrapper trickled down the path. Sometimes he drove a half a mile in a straight line. Other times it was right turn, left turn at every block. Steps were never retraced in this serpentine and linear progression.

      Lloyd passed a group of teenage women without notice. He likewise ignored a juvenile entrepreneur delivering the afternoon paper, which contained the same Sears insert that started this excursion, with but a glance in his fortunate direction. A couple wearing identical T-shirts and walking identical Samoyeds received no notice of any kind.

      A right turn revealed a target. This particular suburban sidewalk was deserted except for a solitary tricycler. It wasn’t the child in particular, but the object, the sum of the parts, which made the connection. The steady and slow roll of the three-wheeler was the last element which took the psycho-nuclear pile to critical mass.

      Undoubtedly the youngster was tracing a path that he had traced many times between his home and that of a playmate without incident. Blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was about to occur, the tiny feet and spindly legs pumped monotonously on the pedals attached to the axle of the front wheel. The shoelaces dangled and clicked the cement at each rotation. Plastic streamers flew from the handgrips in the slight breeze, which swept the child’s hair in an almost avian manner.

      Lloyd saw nothing but the rhythmic roll of the trike. He slowed to an even speed and closed to the curb. He raised and rested the barrel on the open window. Its muzzle protruded but an inch or two into the world beyond. One hand grabbed the top of the steering wheel while the other bore the weight of the gunstock. His index finger found its way to the trigger as the front of the car caught up with the young life.

      The child peddled on at an unhurried pace. Methodically the sedan gained on the target until the firearm was even with its prey. The fortunate aspect of youthful unobservance insured that the last few seconds of the child’s life passed without the terror that true knowledge would have brought.

      A perverse respectfulness compelled the demon within to acknowledge at the very last possible moment that it was about to take a human life. Hey, kid! he belted from the driver’s side of the car, still steering with one hand and intending to kill with the other. Two small pale blue eyes turned to see a man in a car, then a flash and a roar, then nothing more.

      What had once been a person was instantly and brutally torn asunder into almost elemental components. Gone was the promise and the hope of the future. Gone was the spark of life that had brought joy to many. Gone was the reason that others worked so hard to provide and to protect. Nothing remained except an ugly disarray of substances that made up the human body. It was unrecognizable as having been anything that once mattered very much to so many people.

      The sedan slowly and deliberately accelerated away from the carnage that had been wrought. No further wandering, but rather a stealth spin back to the place from whence it had come. The weapon, still smoking and smelling of the mortality it had engendered, was laid in its original place, on the seat, as if the tragedy had not taken place. Back to the garage and back to the attic until the next systems failure occurred.

      No one saw the car or its deadly contents. All that those to whom the rest of the world would refer to as witnesses ever saw was that which had once been a precious little child, now smeared in an undignified and unsightly manner across the pavement and across the lives that remained. All that they saw was the pain and the angst that would burden all for eternity.

      It took as little time for the Hiroshimal blast to subside and depart as it did for it to develop. The fallout would never really go away in any respect.

      Chapter Two

      Dawn cracked hard—real hard. It felt kind of like an arthritic knuckle when it snapped across the back of Marty’s neck. Far preferable it was to awaken prior to first light, if only to get a jump on the first few seconds of white heat that pierced the veil of sleep in a sudden and cruel manner.

      Maybe that was the reason Marty had as of late formed a habit of opening his eyes earlier than most city dwellers. He liked to think that greeting each new day in its formative period allowed him to gain an advantage over those who chose a more leisurely path to perpendicularity. Marty always liked to think that all of his actions and routines were somehow part of some grand plan or design. That’s what gave him his edge. The little things, the insignificant morsels of life that were generally overlooked by others, were all amassed together to form a wealth of assets and ability that made up for all of his perceived shortcomings.

      Marty had never shared this theory with anyone who was in a position to refute its intrinsic wisdom. It made much more sense to take it as a given than to open it up to the scrutiny of those who cast aside these neglected extracts of existence. A superficial study of Marty’s penchant for awakening prior to first light would undoubtedly reveal that it was the result of his inherent restlessness and overwhelming feeling that something or someone would be missed if potentially productive hours were squandered in an unconscious or slothful state. This certainly explained his capability to be a consistent early riser without aid of an alarm clock, coffee, or artifice of any variety.

      There were certainly some negative aspects to being an early morning person—not the least of which was the extreme burden this placed on one’s capacity to participate in or withstand sustained attempts at nightlife courting rituals. It was not that he did not enjoy hitting the bars and hoisting more than a few with the boys and girls, if there be any. His physical capacity to go from 5:00 a.m. until 2:00 a.m. or thereabouts had, however, waned substantially since turning thirty. Such marathon social interactions the kids so bluntly dub as partying had to now be sufficiently spaced such that his inner workings could regenerate on a cellular level and the replenishment of his precious bodily fluids could occur.

      On average this meant that, no more than once a month, Marty would let out all of the stops and participate in the pub crawl. It was still impossible, however, to sleep through the morning, even following a complete evening of drinking, smoking fat ones, telling his stories, and trying out his charmy, smarmy ways on yet another easily amused adventuress.

      Marty knew before he opened one eye or twitched so much as a toe that the prior night’s festivities may have reached a new low. He had rarely been in bed when the sun’s naked and nasty rays revealed themselves. Marty had thus previously spared himself the harshness and angularity of the sharp and sudden shadows cast over the sill and now onto his psyche. Sometimes he thought that blind people were fortunate, as they were spared this type of trauma.

      The mere fact that light was present meant that he had pushed it too far last night, missed an undetermined amount of priceless predawn and thereby relinquished to the masses just a small segment of his advantage. Yes, it was indeed true that every day above ground was a good one. Marty was starting this one in a hole, to say the least.

      It was appropriate to commence life this particular morning by use of the Braille method. Don’t look or you might not like what you see. Start by touching, moving, feeling. In a few minutes, hearing and smelling would work their way into the process. Only after a thorough tetra-sensory scan would it be advisable to turn on the headlights and commence locomotion.

      The toes and feet were a good place to start. They seemed to be in good working order, showing no ill effects of libertine lifestyle. The knees were a shade on the stiff side but no more so than usual. An internal messenger from the innards bore a nonspecific caveat of an indeterminate nature.

      Shoulders and arms were a bit paralytic but certainly capable of sensation. Work the fingers a little to prove that blood is flowing to the extremities. A shift of the body, slide the hands to the pillow to find the unexpected object of his sensory alert. God bless Annie Sullivan for teaching us the value of tactile awareness. There was a quantity of hair on the pillow that was immediately recognizable as being quite dissimilar to the stringy lifeless locks that hung from Marty’s head. These were lush and full and obviously female tresses that were at the tips of his fingers.

      This was not a unique occurrence, but certainly not a regular one. Despite his weakened state and immediate wonder, Marty possessed sufficient self-control to avoid any sudden movements that would have revealed his state of bewilderment. It was, however, time to cut to the chase and open his eyes. There was not a whole lot to see. She was neatly rolled in the top sheet like a papoose or perhaps a crêpe. As she faced the window, away from Marty, he could only see the hair that had hearkened her presence. It was blonde, beautiful honey blonde, most likely naturally blonde. The curls and waves lay out behind her head like a bridal train.

      He immediately felt like an insensitive shit for not awakening with the knowledge of her presence. He would find a way to forgive himself for this faux pas and she would be none the wiser. He had obviously treated her well the night before, or she wouldn’t be here in the morning. Slowly and begrudgingly, the videotape of the last night was rewinding and replaying in his mind. They had made a connection. Somewhere there was common ground. She was a teacher, or was it a secretary, or she hung around lawyers. Marty wasn’t sure of anything except that he had caught her eye and she his.

      He recalled her face although it remained occluded from his view. It was small and round. Her eyes were blue and wide open with wonder and amazement. She had full and inviting lips. It was an invitation that he had accepted without a second thought. Marty recalled the small button nose that wrinkled when she smiled. Her small yet astonishingly articulate hands and fingers. He remembered her feet, tiny and delicate. Not at all what one would expect to find within a pair of cowboy boots. Marty recalled in minute detail how he had been in rapture with this precious and petite set of toes, anointing them with warm oil. Massaging and caressing them oh so carefully. Holding them as one would hold a live bird. He propped himself up a bit on his right elbow and saw the delicate curvature of the bed linen molded to her behind. The rapidly forming recall reminded him how impressed he had been with the perfect roundness and texture of those two hemispheres. Like a pair of ripe peaches, which were readily apparent under the jeans he had peeled off of her at first opportunity.

      The momentary reminiscence of past passion was interrupted by a stir beneath the sheet. Was she awake? Had she been awake and noticed him looking at her? What the hell was her name?

      The lack of a name in Marty’s resurrection of last night was not at all unusual and not the result of any amount of callousness or overconsumption. It was one of his shortcomings, which plagued him in a variety of situations. He liked to think that he was too creative and in control to be saddled with the task of sorting, cataloging, and regurgitating the names of persons that had been hung on them long before their introduction to Marty and that had no relevance to his perception of these persons. People’s names had nothing to do with who they were, so Marty generally ignored them and immediately forgot them. Forget, however, was probably not the appropriate term as it implied that something was remembered at one time. In actuality, Marty never saved the names to his hard drive, so there was never a chance or need to delete them from memory. He had developed a system whereby he gave people names that he felt suited them. Some of them stuck with people for life, but most were of an ephemeral nature. Gals met casually in bars or elsewhere were usually given the name of Babe or Angel or Slim or sometimes, if they seemed inordinately preoccupied with their own good looks, Gorgeous. Male acquaintances were commonly dubbed Ace, Slick, Spud, or, if he knew that they weren’t, Faggot. This system had worked well, with none being the wiser that it originated with an inadequacy on the part of the one dispensing the names.

      He really wanted to recall her name if for nothing else out of respect for her presence. Sensitivity told him that girls feared and loathed sharing intimacy with those who could not remember their names. He believed it to be a semi-unique name. It wasn’t Mary or Jane. Or was it?

      Responding to this need for more time to probe his recollection as well as the diurnal call of nature meant that a slithery slide out of bed and three steps to the bathroom were necessary. He turned the doorknob as the door was shut so as not to alarm the girl out of her state of repose. Once again alone, Marty enjoyed relief from a night’s worth of whiskey with a splash of cold water to the face and a spit of Listerine into the sink. If he was compelled to engage in conversation with a nameless miss, the least he could do was face her with a relatively clean physiognomy.

      There was a spark of an idea. Take some time in the bathroom. Take a shower, a long shower. The noise of the spray against the steel-walled shower and various ancillary actions would certainly awaken her. Perhaps she would make a quick and surreptitious exit. It had happened before although not by design. It was probably for the best that way. What, after all, did he really know about her? There was nothing to suggest that he wanted her there when he got out. Nothing, that is, except for those peachy cheeks, the honey-blonde hair, and a drowzy, incomplete memory of a night of passion. Certainly not enough when the risks were weighed.

      The lack of a handle was instantly the least of Marty’s worries. He had allowed his space to be compromised, however ephemerally. That was more times than not an unwise move. Falling asleep together was one thing, but waking up together was quite another. Perhaps she felt the same way. Maybe she was feigning sleep, waiting for a clear path to the portal. The discovery of abandonment had been a relief in the two occasions when it had happened before. In truth, Marty had no clue as to what to say to a casual overnight companion in the morning. It had happened so infrequently that, if she stayed, he had no idea, plan, or design as to what to do next.

      This inability to form a focus for daybreak discussions was certainly, in a large part, the reason that Marty had made it through the first twenty-nine years of his life without the trappings—or, for that matter, baggage—of failed relationships. He feared not commitment, as many bachelors his age averred, but rather the intense personal, adversarial nature he had seen in every other semipermanent bonding situation.

      Something may have been a bit different about this person. The retention of his relatively short connection with her and her wrinkly nose was not clear enough to point to a specific fact in that regard. Maybe he wanted her to still be there when he found the fortitude to go back into the bedroom. It was a tough call to make on an affirmative basis. Better to continue with the personal hygiene routine and see what happened.

      Marty turned on the hot shower water. As the steam billowed and the window fogged, he remembered that it was always easier to do nothing. Let the other make the decision. If she was gone when he was dried, it was her call and obviously for the best. Inaction was more times than not the best action. Less is sometimes more.

      She could make the call as to whether she wanted to be there or not. Maybe she had better recall than he, anyway. He gave the shower door a good healthy slam.

      Jewely indeed had a name and had been slightly roused when Marty first fled the bed that they shared. She also had near-perfect recall of the past evening. It was unusual for her to have felt comfortable going to his place. It was, for that matter, unusual that she had felt comfortable with him at all. Although that was where her mother and father had met, Mom had always told her that you never meet anyone decent at a bar.

      It hadn’t taken her long to know that she had wanted to make love with him. It had taken almost until closing time for the two of them to decide to depart as a pair. He was certainly a kind man and had not by any means pushed her to his place. They had chatted the night away without any overtly sexual tone or itinerary. She had thoroughly enjoyed his discourse on his philosophy of life. She recalled discovering that it was quite akin to hers, although she had certainly not sat down to define and catalog all of the nuances of existence. She recalled that Marty had an answer or explanation for everything. His aplomb was alluring and entrancing. She had been enchanted by his eloquence.

      The bartender and waitress had seemed to know, and in a very common way, to respect Marty. The waitress had in fact told Jewely that Marty was a good fish while he had been paying some bourbon rent, as he put it. He had obviously frequented the Gin Mill. She remembered being impressed by the very polite and yet low-key manner in which he thanked and complemented the staff of the establishment when being served and when they finally departed. The waitress had given Jewely a sentient little wink when Jewely looked over her shoulder as they passed through the door. She recalled thinking that Marty and the waitress may have at one time had a relationship, perhaps more brother-and-sisterly. If she ever returned to the Gin Mill, she would most likely be interrogated by the waitress about Marty. Jewely despised this type of girl talk. Her arms wrapped around Marty’s waist, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as they ambled along. She would never share the details of what was then about to occur with a waitress or, for that matter, anyone else. She was not the type who tells.

      The decision to depart to Marty’s apartment had been mutual and, as nearly as she could determine, simultaneous. It was a mercifully short walk away. She had been unable to keep her hands off of him for the duration of the stroll.

      Jewely sat up in the bed that was in fact a mattress on the floor. She scanned what she had remembered to be a stereotypical example of a single guy’s apartment. There was a certain entropic quality to the decor. Modern American randomness was the genre. A TV, a stereo, a small bookcase, and a bubbling aquarium took up all of the wall space in the principal place of occupancy. A small and very poor excuse for a kitchen complete with dirty dishes of undeterminable age completed the interior vista.

      She focused on the fish tank. Its bubbling and gurgling had initially been a distraction but later very soothing. Like the droning roar of the surf or a mother’s crooning a lullaby to an infant, the pump-and-churn apparatus had eventually tranquilized her to sleep. Jewely watched the fish as they darted among the plastic castle and volcanic rocks. The greater harassed the lesser. She recollected being at first disturbed by the apparent aggressiveness that these small little creatures exhibited. It was a thought she had to ask Marty to make them stop picking on each other. No request of this nature was made as he would not have heard her plea with her thighs pressed tightly against his ears.

      There was a dull ache in her lower back. It was obviously the result of having been arched like a wrestler’s bridge for what seemed like hours of ecstasy. No man had ever shown such an enthusiasm for giving her pleasure. She had read about the G-Spot. He had certainly gone through the entire alphabet and found her Z-Spot.

      She heard the shower start. Why did he feel a need to get clean when she was determined to make him perspire as soon as he got within arm’s reach? Perhaps it was a routine with this guy about whom she knew nothing except that which she learned in the past twelve hours. A superficial glimpse at best. How should she greet his reappearance? She wished to make him comfortable and avoid the appearance of any angst. Jewely, in fact, had none.

      Lying with her head on the pillow might seem too overtly seductive. That was not how she felt. What she wanted most was to satisfy herself that the last night was real. That he was real. Far too often first impressions were the worst impressions. Any jerk can hold his shit together for an evening at a bar and a roll in the hay. She knew, or rather anticipated, that he was that which he had portrayed himself to be, but she was not even sure what that was. Not the specifics and statistics, mind you, but the inner core, the baseline of behavior that had snagged her attention and affection. She would know in a second, in the first moment of eye contact, or at least she thought it should be that way.

      Jewely thought that Marty took an awfully long time cleansing himself. If he took much longer, any portrayed persona she had planned would be overridden by the need for urgent urination. Just as well in that she had not yet decided what picture to paint.

      There is something very seedy and tawdry about wearing a bustier in the morning. She felt most comfortable when slightly dressed so that was probably as good a place as any to start. The outfit in which she arrived would be totally inappropriate for the dawn’s early light. Perhaps Madonna could wake up to such garb, but not this girl. The lack of planning and a suitcase, however, severely limited her choices. It was either the buff or the bustier. Neither seems to measure up to the feeling that she had. A third alternative all at once revealed itself. The shirt that Marty had worn the night before was draped across the chair.

      Would he mind? she briefly pondered. Logic dictated that he wouldn’t, but some people were funny about their clothes.

      Am I being too intrusive?

      If he is the person he has portrayed himself to be, he won’t mind temporarily sharing a slightly soiled shirt.

      The shower stopped, bringing her decision-making process to an end.

      She rolled to the right side of the bed, turning toward the chair and the window. A bit of a two-armed stretch and a yawn brought her to a slightly higher state of cognition. She slid on the long-sleeve shirt without standing. The tail flanged out behind her as she removed the silver cufflinks and loosely rolled up the sleeves. Jewely tossed her hair out from under the collar and stood upright. Hands still behind her neck, she cast a glance out the window to the street.

      It was a residential, commercial-type block that was at one time the standard cut for an urban neighborhood. The older style of mixed-use areas had long since given way to the suburban specialization and segregation of tract homes and shopping malls. This was a real neighborhood with homes and schools and stores and saloons quilted together in their diversity. Marty’s apartment was located on a street after which movie studio back lots were patterned. The utilitarian makeup of the environs was the result of evolution as opposed to design. Needs arose and needs were met via reaction rather than purposeful foresight.

      Jewely fastened only one button on the shirt, low beneath her breasts. It hung casually to the middle of her knees. When Marty opened the bathroom door he saw the smile, the wrinkled nose, and the fabric of his shirt bulge gently across her protruding nipples. Marty was relieved that she had remained.

      Good morning, Peaches, he drawled.

      Thought you’d never get outtta there, she purred as she encircled his waist with her cuddly charm.

      Marty dropped his bathrobe and slowly lowered her backward onto the mattress. This morning, the world could have the head start upon which he usually insisted. The rest of humanity would have a chance to catch up this day.

      Chapter Three

      Marty always disliked the terms private eye and the more dignified private detective. Eye was an inappropriate use of the noun in his particular case since what he did more often than not used the other four senses in equal proportions to that of sight. Detective was similarly simplistic in that usually the object of the activity was not to detect something or someone, but rather to ferret out an overlooked or forgotten fact, to peel back the veneer of a transaction of relationship, or many times merely confirm the nonexistence of a suspicion.

      Private investigator was probably adequately descriptive but far too formal, almost institutional. It almost implied that Marty should carry a badge and a gun with governmental sanction. Government and sanction were two things, and connection with them was to be avoided whenever possible. It also carried with it the suggestion of action, as does any er- or or-ending noun.

      The state may license and pigeonhole a professional private investigator, but that did not mean that one had to adopt this moniker. If Sacramento would start paying for business cards and letterheads, then the bureaucrats could specify content. Otherwise, it was up to the individual to title him or herself as was appropriate. It was a subtle form of rebellion which resulted in the adoption of the title Purveyor of Information.

      Marty even eschewed the common suffix & Associates, as it would imply a stable of employees at his beck and call, circulating throughout the community gathering data for an endless stream of inquisitive clients. This was certainly not the case. There were people that undertook certain and finite tasks when the need arose, but it was on a sporadic basis.

      Mainly it was Marty and his modem that gathered the information to be purveyed. This is why the door glass, the letterhead, the fax transmittal, the invoices, and the business cards all read Martin Randolph, Purveyor of Information.

      The information revolution had certainly eased the way for commerce and shrunk the globe, so to speak. Manic technonerds had spawned development of the so-called Information Superhighway. This was done much for the same reasons that General Motors and Standard Oil had sparked construction of the Interstate Highway system. Under the mask of national defense in the case of the roadways, the proponents had insured a market for their products and services for endless generations of consumers.

      Absent construction of a massive and comprehensive system of national freeways, there would be less places for people to drive ergo less need to purchase automobiles and less reason to pour endless tanker-loads of dead dinosaurs into them. The need to travel was irrevocably surpassed by the desire to travel.

      Without the web, which interconnected the mass of microchips to one another, the computer manufactures, software developers, and telephone companies would have their markets restricted to those who had a physical requirement for information processing, excluding those with an inchoate desire to be on the cutting edge of technology and at the headwaters of the stream of progress.

      Give them somewhere to drive and they will buy cars and gas. Give them somewhere to surf and they will buy surfboards. Charge a toll for time used and you can have a small but steady spill from their pockets forever.

      Any massive buildup had its price. In the case of personal transportation, it had been an endless yet numerically tolerable slaughter on the roads. Lives terminated randomly for no other reason than a momentary lapse on the part of person or persons never to be known. It had placed a wildcard in the deck of destiny. No mobile individual or anyone that knew or cared for one was ever isolated from the entropic yet life-changing occurrences which had become not only acceptable but also almost mundane in their materializations. Any and all attempts at mitigation had proven to be marginal at best. So the social consciousness was purged with the occasional straightening of a perceived dangerous curve in the road, the fascistic yet sporadic sobriety checkpoints, and the construction of a new stoplight in reaction to an untimely tragedy.

      The ultimate cost of personal transportation in terms of human lives has been debited to the karma of a few individuals. They have been labeled as the perpetrators due to the immediacy of their contact to any particular incident of carnage. The national community long ago lost sight of the root cause, preferring to treat the symptoms.

      Planes crash, guns misfire, ships have always been lost at sea. Occupational hazards exist and are tolerated with rue and regret, as to recognize that true genesis would threaten most if not all of the underpinnings of economic stability. The leaves and flowers never question the benefit of the root.

      So too as to the infrastructure of information. Keep it localized and discrete and it is safe from tamper and invasion. Spread it out over the nation in the tradition of democratization and egalitarianism and an easily permeable fabric is woven which can never be waterproofed against intrusion. A great surrender of privacy and seclusion happened when the opportunity of access to and ease of transmission of information took a position paramount to detachment from the means of infringement.

      Marty had a spark of foresight to perceive the penetrability of databases and search networks at a very early stage in the game. Even prior to universal online capabilities, a glib telephone manner and knowledge of a few key buzzwords and acronyms could open up a myriad of possible avenues for obtaining information. For all of their confidentiality contentions and privacy protection pronouncements, telephone companies, credit card issuers, utility service providers, and governmental gatherers of data were amazingly obliging and accommodating when it came to sharing their secrets with a well-spoken stranger.

      Misrepresenting oneself over the telephone beat the hell out of clandestine meetings with usually despicable and possibly dangerous persons. Things go awry in the best of plans. When they do it is far easier and less jeopardous to simply hang up the phone than to slip out a side door or bathroom window.

      Technoprogress had not completely eliminated the human factor from obtaining knowledge, but it had cut it down to a bare minimum. Once in a while the need arose for a cloak-and-daggerish operation, but these opportunities came with merciful infrequency.

      Chapter Four

      My wife’s boyfriend is getting out of control.

      This was certainly one of the most succinctly self-proving introductory phrases Marty had ever heard from a prospective client. Jeremy’s physical appearance further reinforced the conclusion that all three parties to this confederation had indeed lost all vestiges of control, if they in fact ever had the desire to exercise the slightest amount of self-restraint. There was nothing remarkable about his attire. His simple and casual tan suit with an open collar was contradictory to the serious lack of concordance deeply embedded within this individual. Marty received this as an attempt by Jeremy to attenuate himself from the description of dysfunction that was sure to follow.

      The base eccentricity of individuals who intentionally asymetricize their faces cannot be cloaked with a conservative suit. Females with jewelry embedded in their soft flesh, males with subcutaneous artwork above the neck or asymmetrical aspects to their haircuts are obvious products of internal imbalance. In the mind of Marty, it represented something akin to the medieval religious penitents who wore hair shirts, crowns of thorns, and other items of perpetual discomfort. This person obviously needed to find his center of balance. To inquire further was to risk alienation of a potential source of income. To fail to investigate could lead to future surprises. What with there being very few examples of good surprises in this world, Marty asked the obvious.

      Are you a member of some sort of cult?

      Certainly not. That’s a very strange first question to ask a new client.

      The eyebrow and the half a moustache. I’m sorry if it is the result of an accident, but you understand that I had to ask.

      In a feign of indignity, Jeremy explained that it was something he and his wife did to share an identity. Donna had shaved off her left eyebrow completely. Jeremy then shaved off his right eyebrow and the left half of his pencil-thin moustache. They felt it was sort of a yin-and-yang thing. Apparently neither one of them had inquired very deeply into the actualities of Asian philosophy. Marty felt thankful for the fact that at least she would be easy to identify if it came to that.

      So what’s the problem with her boyfriend?

      He’s getting her into some strange things.

      Please elaborate.

      Well, we have been married for over ten years. And, well, you know that I’m gay.

      Never entered my thoughts. It really hadn’t. Marty had a few gay friends and none of them had ever complained about their wife’s boyfriend or engaged in the mutilation of their own facial hair.

      Well I am, but I love Donna. She married me with the understanding of what I am and I accepted the fact that she would have heterosexual lovers. Not that we don’t have sex, because we do, but I thought that it was only fair to her in view of the fact of how I am. I do anything and everything to please her, but I know that it will never be enough because of who and what I am.

      It was becoming more apparent all of the time that Jeremy had no idea who or what he was.

      Let me get this clear. You’re gay but you’re married to a woman. You have sex with her and she has a boyfriend. Do you have sex with men?

      No, not since we have been married. I don’t like the idea of being unfaithful. Besides that, the gay community is not the place one wants to go looking for love at this point in time. It’s a safety issue.

      At last, Jeremy had said something that made some sense and had some grounding in logic.

      You were going to tell me about a problem with the boyfriend.

      I’m getting to that, but you need to have all of the background.

      Then please, go on.

      Jeremy then spun a tale of idolatry and cuckoldry. For the past ten years this man had bestowed upon her an idyllic life of leisure, luxury, and extreme liberality. Donna had taken full advantage of his generosity and permissiveness by engaging in a decade-long tag team match of musical mattresses. Jeremy made a good bit of money as a stockbroker and Donna had spent with abandon. He had indulged her in every physical and financial fantasy one could imagine. She led him into twosomes. threesomes, group gropes, and clusterfucks. They climbed mountains and sailed the seas. He kept the home in order so that Donna could pursue what she referred to as her creative urges—in fact she had created nothing more than a history of self-indulgence. None of this seemed to be the problem.

      The problem, according to this misaligned being, was that the latest love interest was involved in some type of cult or coven, or perhaps a militia, and was trying to get Donna to join the fold. She was lighting candles all of the time and Jeremy hated the smell of burning wax. Donna had taken to wearing military fatigues while Jeremy felt that any denim clothing was declasse. She had bobbed the bountiful brunette locks that her husband adored in favor of a wash-and-wear cut. Donna brought home a black and white rat as a pet. Some insignia that Jeremy could not identify had been branded onto the hindquarters of the rat. When questioned about the condition of the new pet, Donna had replied that it was that way when she bought it.

      So why not just dump her and move on to your stated gender preference? After all, you just told me you’re a homo. What do you care about a woman?

      Donna’s different.

      No shit.

      I don’t want to lose my wife to some bunch of weirdos.

      Sounds to me like they’d be doing you a favor. This girl seems like more than a handful.

      Jeremy became visibly agitated at the suggestion that he should abandon the cause. He was truly and inexplicably committed to this woman. I can’t let her go. I’d worry too much. She’s my whole life.

      But you’re gay.

      When I’m with Donna, sometimes I feel like I’m really a lesbian trapped in a man’s body.

      So what do you want me to do about it?

      You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?

      Sure, but how can I get your wife away from her boyfriend?

      Donna is extremely jealous, always has been. If you could set Roger up with another woman, Donna could find out. She would then leave him in a second and forget about all of these bizarre things he’s gotten her into.

      That’s his name, Roger?

      Roger Morehead.

      I hate to break this to you, but I’m basically just a computer hacker. I don’t peek through windows or hide behind lampposts. I just kind to flip around cyberspace and pick up information that is already out there.

      I thought you guys were like Sam Spade, Mike Hammer, and the Thin Man.

      Maybe some PIs are, but that’s not what I do.

      "Well, I’m not really asking you to do much. Just find a reasonably attractive female of a casual moral persuasion to get close to Roger. You have to know someone that could help in this regard. Not a prostitute or anything necessarily. Just a girl that

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